


Bloody, Bruised and Broken

by wolfsgrin



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 11:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18939703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfsgrin/pseuds/wolfsgrin
Summary: Soon all he sees is her. The pale blue grey of her dress matches her eyes, he’d become so used to seeing her in nothing but black, harsh and dark against her pale skin, that he takes a moment to observe the change. Her hands are clenched in front of her, the slight worry of one finger over another, the only outward sign that she isn’t sure of herself.





	Bloody, Bruised and Broken

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not even sure what this is, other than wanting to fix it, a quick post finale fic. Spoilers up to and including 8x06.

 

The Stark Bannerman meet them at the long road to Winterfell. Jon expects them to escort him and his two guards through the winter storm, protection awarded to the former King, or from him. Instead he watches the men at his back slip away, to be replaced by those clothed in the Direwolf sigil; flanked on every side Jon has no choice but to follow. He raises his eyes to the soldier closest, not expecting to hear anything more than hoofbeats against the thickly packed snow, instead the man responds with two words “Queen Sansa”.

It is dark by the time they enter the keep, most of the travel has been by firelight, shadows stretching along before them. He’d known the route by heart anyway, he’d been able to navigate these roads since he’d been a boy of ten. Unlike the Stark children, no one had noticed if he went missing for hours on end, returning dirt caked and bloody after dark.

Soon all he sees is her. The pale blue grey of her dress matches her eyes, he’d become so used to seeing her in nothing but black, harsh and dark against her pale skin, that he takes a moment to observe the change. Her hands are clenched in front of her, the slight worry of one finger over another, the only outward sign that she is unsure of herself.

Jon hesitates as he dismounts, unable to move forward, caught between the outer gate and Sansa. She doesn’t move towards him, her face remaining blank and inscrutable, even in the shadow he can see her eyes shining clearly. He falls at her feet, not in a bow but rather a collapse, the snow and ice stinging his knees but he cares little for pain. He can’t even bring himself to look up at her, to see what is really playing in her eyes. Instead he watches the clench and unclench of her fists, both held loosely at her sides, the slight creak of her leather gloves the only sound other than their breathing. Finally he can see her hands moving, reaching, he isn’t sure if they mean to end him or save him. She could wrap them about his neck and be done with it and he would deserve no less. He didn’t listen, he followed Daenerys to the end of the world and watched as it burned around him, all as Sansa had warned.

His breath hitches as finally her fingers smooth over his face, cradling his jaw, her grip gentle but insistent, forcing his eyes to hers. “You are home now. You are safe.” He can’t help the small bark of a laugh, a little madness seeping in,  _maybe he is a true Targaryen after all_. Nowhere is safe anymore. Only it turns from a laugh to a hitch of breath and a sob, he can still smell the burnt flesh, see the bodies frozen and twisted, mouths open in silent screams. Sansa forces him closer, his head settling against her stomach, cloth and fur swallowing the sound of sobs. His shoulders shake under her hands as she trails them from his neck, slowly soothing and rocking him like a babe. 

He doesn’t remember when or how but his arms wind around her middle like a vice, pushing closer, trying to pull her in, until all there is, is the sound of her whispers and the smell of winter. He doesn’t see her tears but he can feel them, can feel her lips against the top of his head as she shushes, breath hot against his temple. Jon’s voice is hoarse, lips cracked and bloody from the cold, but he moves them endlessly against her dress, a prayer for forgiveness, a desperate mans plea; he can’t even tell anymore.

The silent walk to her chambers is only broken up by the sound of wind howling about the stones, whistling and moaning as it gets trapped. The firelight flickers as the flames lick against the breeze, fading and growing the shadows they cast. Sansa doesn’t give him an opportunity to break from her, and he’s glad for the hand that curls about his, pulling him into her rooms. He didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t want to be away from her. His brain fuzzily tries to summon the words, to say thank you, to tell her all the things he should, but his mouth just opens and closes. She pushes his back against the bed, removing his boots, allowing him to see the dirt and snow staining the edges of her gown.

“Sleep Jon.” Her mouth hovers against his temple, lips a whisper, a caress he doesn’t deserve. Her warmth soon seeps into his side, her head fitting into the crook of his neck. If he had the energy he’d break down again.

 

//

 

“How?”

Sansa’s eyes find his in the mirror’s reflection, as she slowly loops one thick strand of hair over and under the other. He’s caught by the motion, his hands aching to bury themselves in he hair, tangle and weave until the braid is undone.  _You destroy beautiful things._ The guilt settles like a stone in the pit of his stomach and he burns with it, forcing his eyes away.

“I told Bran it was a condition of the North’s alliance.” She’s still watching him, tracking his movements like a wolf would prey. Her lips flatten slightly as she turns to meet him, “you protected us, you gave me our home back, I was not going to allow  _her_ foreign army to send you away. Not again.” Her last words are soft, barely a whisper and for a second Sansa sags under the weight of it, looking less like a Queen and more like a world weary child. She straightens quick enough though, shoulders straight and high, red hair afire against the small sliver of sunlight cracking through the room.

“You’re my family Jon, one of the only I have left.”

“I’m not a Stark.”

That earns him a sad smile, her blue eyes shining, “You are one of the only I have left, no one will take you from me.” Her teeth flash slightly and she seems more a wolf than Arya ever did and something swells beneath his breast. Jon knows those words aren’t just for him, there is a distance in her eyes, as if she is speaking to ghosts as well, the ghost of a dragon queen who tried to.

 

//

 

Jon doesn’t sleep, not really, when he does it is in fits and starts, until the dreams choke him and force him awake. Sansa is always there, her body so attuned to his, that even barely awake her hand finds his, gripping so tightly he feels she may shatter, only she never breaks. Her lips move against his neck, half formed words and warm breath and it settles him. It gives him peace he doesn’t deserve, he isn’t even sure he wants it. A fortnight on and he still takes to her bed, a babe needing to be coddled and calmed; the fear and pain blooming in his chest threatening to swallow him whole.

“I killed her.” Jon can feel Sansa tense against his side, her breath hitching slightly. She already knows this of course but they haven’t spoken of it, haven’t spoken of her. The chill in the room grows and he shivers as the feel of ice creeps up his spine, her body pulling away from his, eyes meeting his own. The look there isn’t what he expected. He expects ice, the kind of cold that would chill him even further, the kind of look Catelyn had so often graced him with. Only this isn’t ice, it’s fire. Sansa is pure anger and hatred, cheeks flushed and teeth bared, her hands like a vice against his jaw. Her knees fall on either side of his thighs, her whole body tensed and bowed until all he can see is her hovering above him.

“You did what had to be done. How long until she came for us? For Bran and I? and Winterfell? How long until her dragon burned the women and children until they were just piles of ash at her feet?” She leans down further and now it is just her eyes he can see in the dark, her weight solid against him.

“How long until she burned me alive and made you watch?” He surges forward, fingers threading through her hair, meeting her lips in a bruising kiss, teeth biting and bloody. “As long as she was alive we never would have been safe.” She whispers it against the shell of his ear as he surges against her, her fingers like claws against his scalp, pulling and pushing.

“You swore an oath to protect me and you did.” He wants to tell her she’s wrong, that he could not protect anyone, that he had failed them, but any disagreement dies against her lips, the warmth of her body lighting a path of fire along his. Her pulse quickens beneath his thumb, the smell of her is everywhere and it drowns him.

 

//

 

Jon comes to realize that family is blood and bone and heartache, they are the ones you choose and those that choose you. He watches as Tormund nearly crushes Sansa in a hug that lifts her feet from the ground. She grins, demanding to be put down, her hands immediately cradling her growing belly.

“They tell stories of the Red Wolf, did you know that?” Sansa shakes her head, waving it off. “You tease me, Tormund Giantsbane.” He laughs roughly, overjoyed at how she does not blush and stutter, but stands straighter. Ever the red wolf they had named her.

A fire roars in the main hall, the warmth of it licking at his back, and his arm settles about her waist, his fingers resting against the swell of her stomach.  _No lands, no title, no children._  Winterfell, King in the North, a firstborn son or daughter. She smiles at the waiting Lords and Ladies, her hair loose about her shoulders, waves of auburn curls falling down her back. She is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

Tormund nudges his shoulder, almost sending him stumbling back a step, his eyebrows raised, “kissed by fire.” Jon shakes his head, the ghost of a smile quirking the corner of his lips,  _but not consumed._ He buries his face in her neck, her hand petting at his hair absentmindedly, attention elsewhere, but always in tune with him, no matter where they are.

“My Queen.” A slight shiver works its way through her, the hand against his hair tensing slightly, and he can feel rather than see, the way her smile grows, her cheek soft and warm as it settles against his. This is peace.


End file.
